Page 32 of Inevitable Endings
I roll my eyes but don’t deny it. “I had mild fun. Very mild.”
She grins, nudging me with her elbow. “We should do this more often.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
By the time we swing by a Thai place on the way home, my body is officially protesting every single movement. My legs are sore, my ass feels like it’s been through a war, and the only thing keeping me going is the promise of food and sitting somewhere soft.
Ada insists on ordering half the damn menu; pad thai, green curry, spring rolls, dumplings, and somethingextraspicy just to mess with me. I don’t even argue. I just hand over my card, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that arguing with Ada when she’s hungry is a losing battle.
The drive back is easy, quiet, the kind of comfortable silence that only exists between people who don’t need to fill the gaps with words. Ada messes with the radio, humming along to whatever indie song she’s obsessed with this week, and I just exist.
No patients, no late-night shifts, no half-dead overdose cases muttering about the end of the world.
Just a full takeout bag and the promise of a lazy evening.
By the time we get home, neither of us has the energy to be civilized about dinner. The second we step inside, Ada kicks off her shoes and beelines for the living room, tossing a blanket onthe floor.
“Floor picnic,” she declares, already pulling the food out of the bag.
I raise an eyebrow. “We have a perfectly good table.”
“Boring. This is better.”
I sigh but don’t argue, lowering myself onto the floor beside her. My body aches from earlier, but the second I crack open the container of pad thai and take the first bite, I decide it was all worth it.
“Oh my God,” I groan. “This is exactly what I needed.”
Ada grins, mouth already full. “Told you.”
We sit like that for a while, cross-legged on the floor, the coffee table shoved to the side so we have room to spread out the food. The television hums in the background, playing some random crime drama neither of us is paying attention to.
Ada reaches for the dumplings at the same time I do, and we both pause, staring at each other.
“Let go,” she warns.
I smirk. “Make me.”
She lunges first, but I’m faster, snatching the dumpling from the carton and stuffing it in my mouth before she can react.
Ada gasps, eyes wide with deep betrayal. “I trusted you.”
I shrug, chewing slowly, savoring my victory. “Survival of the fittest.”
She huffs but doesn’t push it, probably because she knows she still has five more dumplings to inhale.
Somewhere between finishing my pad thai and stealing one of Ada’s spring rolls, I realize something else, I feel normal for the first time in weeks, even months.
I lean back, stretching my legs out as I watch the TV without really seeing it. Ada yawns, already curled up in the blanket she dragged onto the floor.
“You tired?” I ask.
Ada mumbles something incoherent in response, her voice thick with sleep. She shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into the blanket, her breathing slowing into the soft, steady rhythm of someone already drifting.
I watch her for a moment, the faint light from the TV flickering over her face. She looks peaceful. Comfortable. Like she belongs here, in this space we’ve made together, safe and warm.
Carefully, I reach for the extra throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and unfold it. I shake it out and gently tuck it around her, making sure she’s fully covered. She doesn’t stir.
Next, I grab a couple of pillows from the couch, placing one under her head and another near her side in case she rolls over. The habit is second nature—taking care of someone without thinking about it, making sure they’re comfortable, protected. It’s instinctive. And for once, it’s not in a sterile hospital room, not for a patient I’ll never see again. It’s for her.
